After Richie
by DixieH
Summary: Repost ... What happened after Richie was killed and before Duncan returned to Paris.
1. Chapter 1

_All the characters belong to someone else not me ... and of course there will be no monetary gain for anyone but their rightful owners._

_Everybody hated Richie's death and season 6 - but I always wondered what happened right after Richie died ... Read and review please._

Joe Dawson wept in Methos' arms. At their feet Richie Ryan lay dead. It wasn't the first time he'd died, but this time it would be permanent; his head separated from his body by the blade of his teacher, Duncan MacLeod.

Methos released his grasp as the shudders slowed. Joe reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. Methos stepped away. Dawson dried his eyes and noisily blew his nose. The immortal Methos had hidden in plain sight for many years in the Watcher organization, and although his formal association had ended sometime ago; he knew their protocol. "Joe," he said, "You have to call this in."

Joe nodded, pulled out his cell phone and began to speak urgently to the "removers". It was a terrible task, but they would come quickly and discretely, to tidy up the scene, to remove the body and to arrange a quiet burial.

When Joe closed the phone moments later he wasn't surprised to find himself the only mourner. Methos had disappeared.

In the 40 minutes between his call and the arrival of the removers, Dawson had time to think things through. However, with a friend lying at your feet, never to rise again in this world, rational thought is impossible. So Joe was left to hover on the edge of shock and disappointment. The removers found him leaning against a pillar staring blankly into space. Their team leader took over the scene and Joe slowly turned his back on Richie and went out into the gathering darkness to find his car.

He drove slowly back to the bar. There was a lone guitarist on the stage in the middle of a set and the crowd was sparse. He nodded to Paul, the barman, went into his office and shut the door against all comers. There was a bottle in his desk. It wasn't full, but it was the best whiskey money could buy brought under the arm of MacLeod nearly a year earlier. They usually drank from it together. Tonight however, Joe Dawson used it to celebrate the life of Richie Ryan.

The next morning from his bed, nursing dehydration and temper brought on by grief and alcohol, Joe called in a few favours. Once the close out report on Richie Ryan was submitted, he would be allowed to claim the body and arrange the burial of a man he thought of as son and friend. He still had no clear understanding of what had happened. He had not witnessed Duncan MacLeod strike the blow that took Ritchie's head, but it seemed certain that he had. After the quickening subsided, Dawson was stunned to see MacLeod offer his sword and his head to Methos. His grief and remorse filled the cavernous space. That Methos turned away, spoke to his restraint and perhaps his own long history of trial and error.

Joe spent what was left of the day at the bar. There wasn't anything pressing, which was good, because he hardly had the concentration for polishing the glasses. Every time the door opened he stopped involuntarily. He was hoping MacLeod would come. He was hoping Methos would be with him. He was praying that there would be an explanation that would dissolve his uncertainty and exercise the guilt he felt. If he had no relationship with MacLeod, Richie would never have cared enough to chase Horton on his behalf. Joe shook his head. Horton was long dead. And the demon Arheiman an unbelievable explanation. None of it made any sense. It was beyond Joe, all he could do was wait. Wait for Richie's body to be released, wait for MacLeod.

It was a beautiful morning some days later that Richie Ryan was laid to rest. Joe Dawson stood silently as the Priest intoned the commitment of Richie's body to the earth. "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes." With a sharp snap he closed his book and Joe wiped away one more tear. They shook hands then and the Priest said farewell.

Joe stood a long time beside Richie's grave. He watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground and covered with freshly turned earth. Joe had called MacLeod and visited the barge. He'd been around to Methos' apartment; he'd even tried to reach Amanda. He wanted someone else to know. He wanted someone else to share his remorse for all the days that had led to this one. He had many questions yet and only one certainty; MacLeod and Methos were both gone from Paris. There was no watcher on Methos. It had been his own decision and now he regretted it. If he could find him, maybe he could find MacLeod.


	2. Chapter 2

Methos settled into the aisle seat. He closed his eyes against the noise and activity of the passengers and flight attendants near him. He felt safe at 30,000 feet, but the proximity of all those other travellers was disconcerting. And it wasn't just the threat of an immortal presence that put him off. The mortals disabled him with their small talk, awkward glances and shy smiles. There was no privacy here and in the confined space, mortals expected a certain level of openness that Methos never managed. The passengers around him finally settled as the place taxied. The flight attendants pantomimed the safety demonstration as the plane queued for take off. Finally the plane turned on to the runway and began its full throttle run. In the air, Methos relaxed and though his posture of composure never wavered from the first moment, he slept as they reached cruising altitude.

He had caught up to MacLeod outside the race track. Filled with grief and the shock of loss, Duncan MacLeod was unusually complacent. Methos took his keys and drove the car carefully back into Paris and parked near his own apartment. Once inside MacLeod sat stiffly on a chair and stared straight ahead. Methos picked up the phone.

"Gabrielle" He greeted the woman on the phone. "It's Adam Pierson."

"Adam, it has been a very long time."

"Can you make some arrangements for me?"

"But of course, what can I do for you."

"A booking for two at that little place you sent me to a couple of years ago."

"Yes," she responded, "Let's see, was it the mission run by the Beaumont family? I'll have to see if they have room. "When do you want to go? "

"Ah, soon, right away really" he said. Methos was standing with the phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear; he was shuffling through a deep drawer in his armoire. Finally he lifted a small brown envelope, opened it and slid a bundle of small books out onto the table.

"OK" Gabrielle said "All I need are the names and I can make the bookings and arrange the flights." Methos flipped though the stack until he found the one he needed. Adam Pierson's passport was filled with stamps from all over the world and just as he expected it had expired.

"Damn." Methos responded

"Adam?"

"Hmm yes just a moment." He replied.

The next passport document belonged to Benjamin Norris. It was still valid. Ben Norris it would have to be.

"OK" he said then. "The first name is Benjamin Norris and the other is." Here he paused and looked at MacLeod. Duncan's gaze never wavered from the blank wall in front of him. "Oh just a minute. Sorry Gabrielle."

"It's OK" she said. "When you're ready."

"Passport" he said covering the receiver with his hand - an attempt to muffle the sound. "I need to see your passport. " MacLeod looked at Methos then and began to pat his coat pockets. Finally he shrugged off the coat and handed it to Methos. Methos finally found the document in a zippered pocket near the hem. Not surprisingly the document was not only valid but bore the name Duncan MacLeod.

Gabrielle took the details of both passports and said she would call back in 30 minutes.

"Actually love, I'll call you. We'll head for the airport. That way you can arrange the first available."

"Are you travelling too, Adam?"

"Oh no" Methos said covering, "I'm the driver you see."

Methos set the phone down and then took a small suitcase from the closet and began to fill it with clothes and books. When he was satisfied with the contents, he surveyed the room. In the half light of early evening he wondered when he'd be back. Or if. He knelt beside the bed and pulled out a rectangular hard shelled case and snapped open the latches. He lifted out the electric guitar and laid it on the bed, then with a practiced hand dislodged the lining. He reached into his own coat then and drew out his sword and laid it carefully in the carrier. He replaced the foam lining, the guitar, closed the latches and carefully locked the case. Checked as regular baggage the case never drew attention. It was covered with stickers and was a perfectly good cover, unless someone asked him to lift out the instrument and play a few riffs - then it was game over.

He flung his back pack over one shoulder and picked up the case. MacLeod stood uneasily and Methos handed him his coat and the small suitcase. Making sure to take both his own passport and documents supporting his own new identity he tucked them into his pocket. He slid MacLeod's passport in with his own.

A short while later Methos repeated the process at the barge. MacLeod stood statue like, near the fireplace, while Methos loaded a small case with clothes. Methos was guiding MacLeod out the door when he saw that MacLeod's clothes were splattered with fine dark dots. It took a few more minutes, but once MacLeod was changed Methos drove to the airport. He parked Mac's car in long term parking and paid the deposit. They took the shuttle to the airport and made their way to the international departures area. He found a bench where they could see but not be approached from behind and he opened his cell phone.

"Gabrielle." She answered on the first ring.

"Adam all is accomplished. The Mission at Santa Theresa has room for both your friends and they will be met at the airport. Now if you have a pen, I will give you the flight information."

Methos gave her his credit card information from memory and closed the phone. He wondered about Joe, but one look at MacLeod sitting stone faced on the bench beside him changed his mind about another phone call. "OK friend, come on." Methos led the way to the men's room. He stood beside MacLeod, setting the backpack on the counter between them. It took him a moment but eventually he came up with a rather ragged elastic band. He held it out "Pull your hair back and while you're at it wash your face. You look like hell." Mac didn't turn and didn't speak, but he did comply.

When they came out of the washroom Methos felt the presence of another immortal but it faded quickly into the distance. Methos breathed a sigh of relief. The airport with its crowds and security personnel was a good place to avoid a challenge, but with Mac' state of mind and lack of a sword, Methos wasn't sure what he'd do if they encountered an immortal. They headed for the passenger check in line. Methos was hungry and thirsty, but he wanted to get the bags checked and through security.

Finally they checked the suitcase, Mac's duffle bag and the guitar case and ran the gauntlet through customs . Before they went to the boarding area, Methos bought two sandwiches and two styrofoam cups of tea. MacLeod looked at the sandwich through the cellophane wrapper and set it carefully on the seat beside him. The tea he held in one hand. When Methos was finished he dumped his own empty cup and MacLeod's cold tea and stuffed MacLeod's wrapped sandwich in his own coat pocket.

Methos sighed quietly as he returned to his seat beside the Highlander. With his chivalrous spirit, Methos wasn't sure that this wasn't all wasted effort. He could lead MacLeod to holy ground, but he couldn't make him stay. Mac might never be able to accept what he had done and return to the land of the living. Every immortal knows that there can be only one, but the reality of taking the head of your friend, your student or your lover was beyond the ability of most.

It had been the one thing that had finally broken the Horseman's hold on him. Methos knew he could never take Cassandra's head. She was so lovely and after a time, he came to care for her. He imagined she felt the same about him. Betraying her trust and allowing Kronos to have her opened a wound in Methos which made escaping the Horseman a necessity. All these centuries later he still regretted how he'd treated her, but he had learned to live with regret. MacLeod might not be able to live with what he'd done. And there were plenty of immortals willing to take an easy head.

Those first few weeks on holy ground, Methos was certain he was wasting his time. Duncan refused to eat. He kept odd hours. He sat beside the open window in his room all night and slept most days. Methos tried to give him the appearance of privacy, but really shadowed him quite closely. When MacLeod slept, Methos ate, walked and slept, but when Duncan sat up in his chair, Methos sat nearby. Methos tried to get him to talk, but it was clearly a waste of breath and so Methos let him be.

This little piece of heaven had been the perfect retreat for Methos a half a dozen times during the last hundred centuries or so. It had been a monastery, a place apart for those wishing a life of prayer and seclusion. After the church sold it, the family Beaumont, maintained the chapel and rented the narrow rooms hotel fashion. Methos was careful not to visit too often. It wouldn't do to arrive physically unchanged after 50 years and find the owner or the Abbot wizened and old. The family provided professional anonymity, and delicious meals. For an immortal, it was an ideal place to relinquish the game and deal with the heart breaks of your soul. A priest came each week to hear confession and say mass in the chapel. Methos met him the first week. Father Bertrand was a man of wit, deep spirituality and a terrible chess player. Methos liked him immensely.

Near the end of the third week, when it was clear that holy ground was having little affect on MacLeod, Methos asked Father Bertrand to see him. Methos didn't stay to hear the conversation, but afterwards MacLeod showered and made Bernadette Beaumont's day when he came to the kitchen and asked for tea and toast. Methos caught up to Father Bertrand as he was climbing into his jeep. Bertrand closed the door and said "I have time for a walk."

They were out of sight of the buildings along a broad pathway that eventually wound down to the sea, when Bertrand broke the silence.

"Your friend is very troubled."

"I know."

"But you seem to think that he can recover from what is troubling him."

"I don't know Father, I only hope."

"He suffered a great loss."

"Yes."

"And you shared in the loss?"

"Yes."

They walked a few more paces. Then Bertrand stopped.

"I will tell you the essence of what I told him." Bertrand turned to face the immortal. "I reminded him that until he dies, he must live. He has some faith and also he believes it is a sin to seek his own death."

Methos replied rather slowly, "I think Father, you have said what he needed to hear."

"I hope so Adam." Bertrand paused then and turned to look out at the ocean. "Perhaps, as we argue philosophy and predestination, over the chess board, you will also hear what you need to hear?"

"Perhaps Father, perhaps." Adam nodded. They shook hands there on the trail and Bertrand left Methos looking out on the ocean.

The next few weeks, MacLeod remained mostly silent. He replied quietly when spoken to but didn't initiate any conversations. He walked with Methos through the grounds, prayed in the chapel, borrowed books from the Mission's library and dozed in the great room. He pleased Bernadette with his appetite and bored Methos by beating him at chess.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a month later that Methos was confident enough to contemplate leaving MacLeod. Before making his final decision he spoke to Father Bertrand.

"I am thinking of leaving."

"And you are concerned for your friend?"

"Yes."

"He seems to have chosen to live."

"I think so too." Methos nodded.

"What about you?" Father Bertrand asked "Will you live as well?"

Methos shuffled his feet and looked over Bertrand's shoulder. "I'm a survivor Father, whatever happens. It is what I do best."

"Then go with God. I will continue to offer hope to your friend and perhaps he too will return to the world."

Methos knocked on the door to Duncan's room late the following afternoon. MacLeod was sitting near the window, a small leather bound book open in his hand. He looked up impassively.

Methos came in and sat on the bed opposite. "It's time for me to go." He said. "I've made arrangements for you to continue here as long as you would like."

MacLeod nodded and closed the book. He looked at his feet a long time. "I want to thank you for my life." He said finally, looking directly at Methos. "After Richie, I would have let the first immortal I met take my head, if you hadn't brought me here."

"I know" Methos said. They shook hands when Methos rose. He didn't see MacLeod again for more than a year.

Two days later, Methos was standing on a street in Paris. Rain fell from a dismal sky, but Methos felt happier than he had in some weeks. He was anticipating Joe's company and Joe's beer. Realistically though he knew he would have to deal with Joe's anger first. He thought fleetingly of finding a new watering hole, and a new friend, but decided he was already wet enough. He pushed open the door and stepped into the gloom of the bar.

Joe Dawson was alone on stage playing a broken hearted tune Methos didn't recognize. He spoke to the bartender and sat down at a table in the dim recesses of a corner. Joe finished the set and stood to take the scattered applause. Scanning the crowd he was startled to see a familiar face. When he got to Methos' table, Paul, the bartender, was about to set down a pint. Joe touched his arm and stalled the action.

"Get out." was all he said.

"Come on, Joe." Methos replied.

"You're one sorry son of a bitch. And as long as I have a choice, you don't need to bother drinking in my bar." A few nearby heads turned. Paul took half a step back; one hand on the tray and the other on the glass.

"Fine," Methos said not shifting from his seat. "One for old time sake and then I'll be on my way." Joe gave him the best look of disdain he could manage and nodded once. Paul set the glass down and backed away from the table.

Methos picked up the beer and brought it carefully to his lips. He set it down without taking a sip. Dawson was still standing guard at the table. His face full of wrath.

"Why don't you join me?" Methos asked sliding out a chair.

Joe sat in the chair.

"Where you been?" he asked. He was leaning across the small table.

Methos shook his head. "Here and there."

Joe shook his head and sat back. "You could have stuck around for the funeral." His voice was raw with pain.

Methos sat up a little straighter. "It wouldn't have done Richie any good." He whispered.

"No, but it would have done me some."

"Sorry Joe." They sat like that for a while. The beer was untouched on the table. Finally Joe relaxed a little and Methos, picked up the glass and drained it.

"I'd better be going." Methos pushed his chair back, but before he could rise, Dawson clamped a fist around his wrist.

"Where have you been?"

" Attending to the living."

Dawson moved in closer and whispered "MacLeod?" Methos relaxed in the chair and Dawson released his grip. Methos nodded.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, Joe."

"He's alive?"

"He was two days ago."

"You didn't take his head."

"No." Dawson signalled the bar. They sat together until Paul brought a beer and two shot glasses to the table.

"Where was he two days ago?" Joe asked after Paul stepped away.

"Holy ground." Methos drained the shot. "But when I called to check on him after I got here, he had moved on."

Joe nodded and drained the glass in front of him. "You made sure he got to holy ground. You watched over him."

Methos shrugged and sipped the beer. "He's the hero. He chose to live and fight another day."

Joe nodded and silence fell over them. There were more questions to ask and evade, but there would be time for that.

_Congratulations! You made it to the end. _

_Now it's your turn to write a little something called a review._


End file.
